


Mr. Obvious

by NyteFlyer



Category: Donald Strachey Mysteries (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Canon Gay Relationship, Drama, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-16
Updated: 2010-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-13 05:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/133754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyteFlyer/pseuds/NyteFlyer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donald worries about being "too obvious"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Obvious

Throughout my life, I’ve invested a helluva lot of time and effort into not appearing “too obvious.”

You wouldn’t believe it now, but I haven’t always been so cool about being gay. After what happened in the army, who can blame me? Not so long ago, the very idea of being on either the giving or receiving end of a P.D.A. would shrivel my balls, and I’d be embarrassed as hell if I saw two guys lip-lock in public -- and not just because I took other people’s negative comments about it personally. If you wanna know the truth, it would make me feel like shit. Not because I was disgusted with the lovers, lucky bastards that they were, but because I was disgusted with myself. The truth is, they made me feel inadequate as hell, because I knew I didn’t have the guts to do what they were doing, to stand tall and be myself and damn the torpedoes.

For me, being gay used to mean sneaking around in the dark, holing up in the back room of a bar or in some cruddy restroom in the park with whatever anonymous piece of meat was willing to provide a hand or a head job. All physical contact took place through a thin layer of latex as we exchanged as few words as possible and no bodily fluids whatsoever. It scares me to think how long I might have gone on like that with my head up my ass instead of square on my shoulders where it belongs. But one day when I least expected it, Timothy Callahan waltzed into my life and made me rethink my priorities.

Timmy, see, he blows my mind, and he does it pretty much on a daily basis. That someone like him can actually love someone like me. Not just love, but _love_ , you know? And that he can be so goddamned proud of me, proud to be with me, to be seen with me, proud that I’m his and he’s mine. So proud he can hardly contain it, that it’s practically running out his ears, oozing out his pores, obvious as hell to anyone who sees us together.

In the face of all that pride, it’s hard to hang onto shame, let me tell you. I’m not saying I’m a quick study, because I’m not. And I’m not saying it’s been an overnight process, because it hasn’t. But you know what? Bit by bit, the shame in me has been leeched out and replaced by pride as well. Pride in Timmy, of course. Pride in being his and him being mine. Pride that I’ve got something in me that he wants and loves and even needs, that I fill him up the way he fills me. Pride that we complete each other in a way no one else ever has or ever will.. Pride in myself, finally, because that’s what it comes down to in the end, isn’t it?

Pride in me.

* * * *

The first Saturday in August, barely noon and already 100 degrees in the shade. You’d think I’d still be curled up in bed with Timmy, the AC struggling to turn our new apartment into a happy meat locker as we make a little heat of our own. Instead, I’m sweltering out here on the sidewalk, a few blocks down from the capitol building, because Timmy needed to put in a half day wrapping up some special project the senator has him slaving away on. He thinks I’m waiting for him at home, unpacking boxes or setting up the computer maybe, or more likely just being lazy and sleeping in. Instead, I’ve decided to surprise him and take him to lunch at his favorite cafe, then to a movie or even some snorefest at the museum if that’s where the mood takes him. I’ve got a few bucks saved back, so if he’s game, after that we’ll swing by the apartment to change. Then it’s drinks and dancing, and a late supper out. He’s really been busting ass the past couple of weeks between the job, the move, and dealing with the day-to-day chaos that‘s part of the package when you shack up with someone like me. I just want to spoil him a little bit. Kind of thank him, I guess, for the way he always spoils me.

As I walk along, wilting faster than the scraggly herb garden Timmy’s been trying to resuscitate in our kitchen window box, I wonder why the city always smells like crunchy socks this time of year. You know, the ones you wear for four days straight because doing laundry doesn’t exactly top your list of great ways to spend your day off -- provided you ever have a day off -- and you’re too damned broke to go out and buy fresh ones to tide you over. When they finally get so rank you’d rather just go without and get blisters, they lie under the bed or in a corner somewhere, yellowing and stiff, until the world ends or someone gets around to cleaning the place, whichever comes first. Most of my life, I’ve pretty much lived a crunchy sock existence, but since I hooked up with Timmy, you could say change has been in the wind. Now I hardly ever get a whiff of that old, familiar smell anymore, unless I come downtown, or if a couple of weeks have gone by since Timmy last tossed my office. What can I say? Nobody’s perfect.

I come to a halt curbside and shift impatiently, waiting for the light to change. I glance at my watch, worrying that Timmy might make it to the bus stop before I do and catch a ride home, spoiling my big surprise. I inspect the bouquet of carnations mixed with baby’s breath in my hand, relieved to see that they’re holding up under the heat better than I am. Like some of those old movies Timmy’s so crazy about, the flowers have been “colorized” -- purple, orange, green, blue, red -- more colors than in a Crayola box, and not a single shade that occurs in nature. Yeah, I know. They’re kinda loud. But I like loud, and if Timmy has any issues with my taste in flowers, he’s never bothered mentioning it to me. Whether it’s a single, perfect rose or an armful of half-priced leftovers I pick up at the grocery store at the end of the night, getting flowers from me always makes Timmy happy. Which, of course, makes me happy.

For me, happiness has been a concept that’s taken some getting used to, like the absence of sock funk under the bed or having a warm body to curl up next to when I drag myself home at three a.m. after spending the night in a chilly car, documenting the fact that some middle-aged housewife really is popping her husband’s best friend. But I am getting used to it, getting to depend on it, if you want to know the truth. Getting to the point where I almost believe that maybe, if I play my cards right and don‘t do anything stupid to remind Timmy that he could have anyone on the planet and doesn‘t have to settle for the likes of me, happiness just might be here to stay.

So I’m standing here at the curb, a little nervous but in a good way, because it’s nervous excitement over my plans for the day, just feeling happy about the fact that I’m happy, when someone jostles my arm, almost making me drop Timmy’s bouquet. A toxic cloud of bourbon mixed with _eau de armpit_ makes my nose hairs scream and run for cover, forcing me to suck air through my mouth. I look down into bloodshot eyes hung about four inches closer to the ground than my own and bite back the urge to start something with the greasy-haired hillbilly who’s pulled me out of my happy place.

“Whoa, dude, don’t wantcha dropping those! They’re gonna be your ticket to a night of sweet stuff between the sheets, am I right?”

I give a non-committal shrug and try to ease away, but he’s not taking the hint. Instead, he closes the distance between us, eyeballing the flowers intently. “Whatcha got waiting, man? A hot little blond piece of ass, maybe? Or is she a brunette? Brunettes are sloppy lays, dude. I mean, anything‘ll do if you‘re hard up enough, but….”

He’s pissing me off, and I’m not exactly doing a great job of hiding it. About half a second before I wade in with my fists and start defending Timmy’s honor, his buddy -- half a head taller and twice as greasy -- jerks him away. “Shut up, Lester. You can’t spell ‘brunette,’ let alone get one in the sack with you. Leave the guy alone, wouldja? At least he’s not some candy-assed queer like that waiter last night. Remember? The one who held your hand all nice when he handed you the check?”

“If he’d touched me one more time, I woulda knocked his faggety ass into next week. Fucking queer, swishing around and acting like he owned the place. How can he stand looking himself in the mirror, knowing it’s obvious as hell he lets himself get reamed by other guys? Other guys, man! Doesn’t it make you wanna puke?”

“It’s disgusting, all right. Swear to God, man, this city’s full of it. Look around you. I’ve never seen so many fags in my life. I’m telling you, I can’t wait til the convention’s over and we can head back to Kentucky. At least back home, most of the fairies have sense enough to stay in the closet where they belong.”

“The nasty bastards are always hollering for special rights, that’s what gets me. They have too goddamned many rights now. Hitler had the right idea, man. Toss ‘em into the ovens and turn on the gas….”

Swallowing back bile, I grit my teeth and keep my mouth shut, wishing the goddamned light would change because I don’t know how much more of this shit I can take. Forcing myself to focus on something besides Lester from Kentucky, I stare across the street and finally spot Timmy about half a block down, bopping along toward the bus stop in his happy Timmy way, briefcase swinging, an extra little glad-to-be-alive hop in every step he takes. He’s wearing his new summer suit, a soft dove gray with lavender pinstripes, complete with lavender shirt and a royal purple tie that nobody -- and I do mean nobody -- but Timmy could pull off. Even from this distance, he looks good enough to eat, all trim and handsome and professional looking, and cool as the proverbial cucumber in spite of this miserable weather.

I really want to kick myself for not dressing up a little, because I’m gonna look like a poor relation next to him in my combat boots, cut-offs, and faded AC/DC shirt. Then another thought hits me and I feel like a total piece of shit even as I think it, because just for half a second, I wish he wouldn’t spot me, that I could turn tail and run and never have to live through the inevitable moment when these two rebels without a clue beside me put two and two together and realize Tim’s with me. The moment when all that ignorance and hate’s gonna turn on me full blast, because they can’t help seeing what everybody else sees when they lay eyes on Timmy, my beautiful, brilliant, kind-hearted Timmy.

I love him. God knows I love him with all my heart. But he’s just so fucking obvious.

Right on cue, Lester nudges his buddy and hisses through the gap between his front teeth, “Oh my god, dude, do you see that?”

“The pansy in purple? I see him all right. Jesus H. Christ, what self-respecting fruit would parade around like that in the middle of the day?”

“That’s why the Lord invented A.I.D.S, man. Faggot control, pure and simple….”

I can’t hear the rest thanks to the blood pounding in my ears. I’m feeling about fifteen different things at once, and that last remark congeals it all into a flaming mass of white-hot fury. I clench my fists, ready to turn around and kick some redneck ass, when Timmy spots me and wriggles his fingers in that little kid wave of his, his face splitting into a big, sweet smile that brings all the insane crap running through my head to a screeching halt. And in that instant, my anger’s gone, replaced by a surge of purest pride.

See, Timmy doesn’t think of himself as a brave man. All this time, he’s been treating me like I’m some kind of hero because I’ve put in my time dodging sniper fire in Kuwait, because I know how to use a gun and occasionally come out on the winning end of a slugfest with some piece of back-alley scum. But what I realize as I watch the best thing that ever happened to me strolling -- no, _bouncing_ \-- along the sidewalk in my direction, is that he’s the one with the balls in the family. Sure, I can handle myself in a fist fight. But it takes a helluva lot more courage for Timmy to live every day of his life as just him, as an out, gay, professional man who’s in public view 24/7, without pretense or apology, in this crummy-assed society of ours. Timmy doesn’t wave any rainbow flags, and I seriously doubt if he’s ever marched in a parade. What he does instead is just quietly go about his business with honesty and honor, standing as tall as any man can hope to stand and damning every torpedo the world can fire in his direction. That, and assume with that blind faith of his that I’m doing the same.

You know what? From here on out, that‘s exactly the way it‘s gonna be.

Those two sterling examples of subhuman slime are still carrying on about death camps for fags or whatever, but I’ve stopped worrying about what they’re thinking or saying, or what they’d like to take away from me if they had the power to do it. Just like that, all I care about is the fact that I’m jumping out of my skin excited, in a hurry for the light to change so I can get my hands on Timmy and give him a little taste of what he means to me. I pull a single carnation, bright purple like his tie, out of the bunch and snap the stem off so it’s a manageable length, twirling it in my fingers in anticipation. When the light finally turns, I’m off like a shot, sprinting across the street, laughing and free in a way I’ve never been free before.

In that spooky way he has of knowing exactly what I’m about to do ten seconds before I do it, Timmy pauses in the middle of the crosswalk and opens his arms wide, feet spread apart as he braces for the body slam he sees coming his way. We connect with a mutual ooof as I all but bowl him over and nail him with the biggest, sloppiest kiss I have to offer. Then I’m spinning him and laughing even louder, and he’s laughing with me, hugging me just as hard as I’m hugging him. But the light’s about to turn again, so I break it off and do a quick trade, grabbing his briefcase for him and handing over the bouquet, taking an extra second to slip that crazy purple carnation into his buttonhole.

We link arms and hustle back the way I came, back toward the not-so-good ol’ boys who are closing in on us fast, staring us down and looking like they’d give anything to catch us in a dark alley instead of in the middle of a crowded street so they could pound us both into hamburger the way the good Lord intended. I tuck their faces away in my mental filing cabinet of possible suspects, thinking that if they decide to follow us and start something later, I might just have to do a little pounding of my own. But I don’t waste much time thinking about that, because I’m with Timmy and life is good, and he’s giving my arm happy little squeezes, looking pleased as punch to have his nice suit rumpled by an underdressed, sweaty lunatic in the middle of a city crosswalk on a Saturday afternoon.

“Well, hello to you, too!” he says, holding the flowers up to his nose for a quick sniff, his grin as big and goofy as I know mine’s gotta be. “What’s the occasion?”

As Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber pass us, glaring, I look the tall one dead in the eye and flip him off just subtly enough to escape Timmy’s attention, then answer my honey’s question loud and clear enough for them to hear me, for anyone within a ten-foot radius to hear me.

“No occasion, sweetheart. It’s just because I love you. Isn’t it obvious?”


End file.
